The Otherwhere Post

Chapter 15

The next two mornings, Maeve walked to a spot against the Post’s perimeter fence that gave her a good view of Blackcaster Square, watching the flow of couriers coming and going, memorizing their patterns. The lines were busiest in the morning and after luncheon, then ebbed to a trickle, stopping entirely when the station locked up at ten.

On the third afternoon, Maeve went to all her lectures and acted like she normally would: ducking her head whenever someone looked her way, then rushing out before anyone had a chance to pack their things. She stuffed her saddlebag full of old newspapers, so it bulged like a bag full of letters, then raced through the woods, stepping nimbly through Tristan’s gap in the fence, stumbling down the embankment.

The road bordering the square was filled with protesters. Maeve spotted a pair of couriers in the crowd and snuck in behind them, darting through the north side gate of Blackcaster Square, until only the station was left.

Go inside, find an empty section of wall, and whisper your name where nobody can overhear.

It sounded simple, but executing it would take all of her nerves.

At least with the sun low on the horizon, there was no line. Maeve lifted her chin high and entered the station like a courier might: as if she had every right to be there.

The remains of the Written Doors were covered with sheeting, the salvaging crew gone, save for an officer nibbling away at a dripping sandwich, chatting with a pair of constabulary couriers.

Maeve’s pulse picked up, but she forced herself to hurry past, nearly running through the sorting room and down the hall with Molly’s plaque warning of the Aldervine.

In the last room, couriers were still sorting letters into large metal bins against the far side, opposite the black stone wall.

Before she could approach it, a door appeared, and an otherwhere courier stumbled out in a whirl of blotchy cheeks and dripping hair. He shook his head, flinging droplets on the floor.

“Got caught in the rain because of a crier in Barrow. I stayed with her for an extra hour and somehow agreed to go check on her mother here tomorrow,” he said, then wiped his nose with a handkerchief and tottered by with a large stack of letters in one hand. One of the workers rushed over to grab his letters.

Maeve didn’t dare to speak her name with the pair in earshot. She took her time walking to the farthest section of the black stone wall, hoping the pair would go about their business and not come any closer.

A plaque she hadn’t noticed the first time hung on the black stones, embossed with the Post’s pigeon and a small quote that read:

We Are the Loved One Whispering in the Night.

We Are Proof That a Person Is Never Alone .

The irony of the words struck Maeve. She had never felt so hopelessly alone as she did now, trembling before a wall.

Enough of this.

She stepped forward, fidgeting with her cloak, waiting for the others to walk farther toward the bins, for the people sorting letters to look the other way.

One of the sorters caught Maeve’s eye, then glanced to her empty hands. “Where’s your letter?”

Maeve’s heart lurched. “My letter?”

“It’s protocol to hold one in front of you when you cross over,” the woman explained. “So people see what you’re about, and don’t try tackling you for appearing out of walls.”

Right.

Maeve pulled out the anonymous letter, vowing to bring a small arsenal of letters if she ever had to do this again. She faced the wall and opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Sweat beaded beside her nose. Another pair of sorters looked her way, whispering.

She stepped closer to the wall until she could smell charcoal steam rising from the stones. The marking on the underside of her wrist began to tingle, and the feeling miraculously managed to calm her.

Don’t be a coward. Do it now. You will never get this chance again.

“Maeve Abenthy,” she whispered softly.

Nothing happened.

Maeve cursed herself and started to turn, but stopped when a door appeared before her on the black wall, its wooden front warped from age. A sinister handle formed in the center, shaped from matte black iron. Maeve wrapped her fingers around it, jolting at a shock of cold. It clicked as she turned it, then made a thin wail as the door creaked open.

A strange air brushed against her tongue. It tasted like the beginning of a Gloam lightning storm, where the stars seemed to spatter the earth and the sky danced with orange light.

There were no stars here, only an eldritch blackness that resembled the pit of Molly Blackcaster’s fountain.

She held her breath and stepped.